Dogs of War
by WeeabooJones117
Summary: A group of Astartes mercenaries travel across the stars to wage war for the highest bidder. They quickly become embroiled in a situation far beyond what they wanted.
1. Chapter 1

Even now it was strange, all these years later. No buzzing itch in the back of his head, no voices crying out for blood in his psyche. He stood on the battlements, the paint of his blue and white power armor chipped and splattered with fresh blood. An empty bolt pistol was holstered at his side, both his gauntlets dripping with clotted gore.

His helmet was maglocked to his thigh, the cyclopean visor staring into nothingness and the Eldar-hair crest waved in the wind. His hairless head was heavily scarred, from every type of weapon imaginable. Slate grey eyes stared at the rampaging army below him, a mass of wild bestial mutants and twisted mechanical monsters. His part was done, him and his warriors had slaughtered their way through the citadel and killed the last of the fortress' defenders.

He felt the presence behind him before it spoke, he could hear the quiet whirring of subtle machinery and smell warm oils flowing in the place of blood. He turned, facing the servant of the Omnissiah as he approached him. The Tech-Priest was built like an Astartes, tall and thickly built. But instead of powerful war plate, he wore sickly yellow robes which were the colors of his clan. His face was a mass of compound bionic eyes and steel trap jaws.

"Captain Leonydas, you have upheld your end of the bargain. Your warband will receive the payment agreed upon." His voice was a harsh screech of vox feedback that could barely be understood.

"Yes, Tech-Priest Fellgore, we have slain your rivals. Do you ask anything else of the War Hounds?" His voice ground out like tank treads, containing the promise of future violence.

"No, Captain. Our own forces will consolidate here, so you may gather your payment and leave if you so wish." Leonydas nodded, satisfied with the answer the Dark Mechanicum priest gave him.

"Farewell, Tech-Priest. Our services are always for hire." He walked away, back towards the citadel where his brethren were gathering trophies. Unlike his former brothers, who clad themselves in blood and brass, his War Hounds didn't offer skulls or blood to the Lord of Rage. They had rejected the Primarch and the Warmaster, even the God of Blood and Skulls.

He had thirty warriors in his warband, all of them free warriors that served only themselves. With their own warship and crew, they sold their services to the highest bidder for wargear and slaves. He approached his men, his sergeant coming to meet him. Ashur was lean for an Astartes, but he made up for his lack of raw strength with speed to rival an Eldar. Like Leonydas he was helmless, his scarred head covered in stubble besides the small crest of red hair that rose down the center.

"Sergeant, round up the men. We're getting paid and getting out of here." His sergeant's face split in a savage grin.

"Another war, Captain?" Leonydas nodded; Ashur saluted and began yelling at the men to fall out. They policed up their weapons and trophies and followed Ashur down the stairs of the Dark Mechanicum citadel. Leonydas followed behind them, staring at the slaughter his warriors wreaked on the slaves and priests of the Omnissiah.

As the War Hounds made their way towards their Thunderhawk gunship, the grouped slaves and soldiers of their allies parted like wheat before the scythe. Each mutant and machine-servant with enough cognizant thought to recognize danger eyed the massive warriors from a bygone age with a healthy mix of fear and awe.

The world this Dark Mechanicum outpost rested on was a nameless hell world within the Maelstrom, an abandoned world to perform their twisted experiments. The sky was a churning mass of reds and blues, purple lightning splitting the sky at regular intervals. Wind blew across the dry and cracked plains, driving sand and grit into the mountainside fortress of the Servants of the Machine God.

The Astartes marched the kilometer back to the landers and their gunship in relative silence besides hushed conversations between brothers. They were no preening whoresons of Fulgrim or howling milk-bloods of Russ.

As they approached the landers, they saw twisted muscle-bound servitors unloading massive crates from a supply dropship and carrying them to one marked with the War Hounds' rampant crimson hound sigil. Several of their slaves were helping as they could, all of them in fatigue coveralls with the sigil branded on their left cheek.

One of Fellgore's acolytes approached Leonydas as the Astartes made their way towards the ancient Thunderhawk. Like his master he was also clad in sickly yellow robes, but he was more baseline human in form and function.

"Captain, I trust you would like to inspect the goods?" His voice was soft and sibilant, almost inaudible over the wind. Leonydas nodded and followed the acolyte as he strode towards the crates. With hiss of machine speech from an unseen vox speaker, the acolyte stooped two of the mutant servitors and opened the crate between them.

Inside were dozens of oiled bolters resting softly in padded racks, each of them manufactured on a forge world of the Imperium. The War Hounds only accepted wargear stolen from the foundries of the corpulent Imperium, uncorrupted by the essence of the Immaterium.

"Very nice, acolyte. What about the others?" Leonydas motioned towards the other crates. The acolyte pulled an archaic data slate from beneath his billowing robes and began matching serial numbers on the crates to ones on the slate. There were many more weapons, from heavy bolters to a few plasma guns. Several suits of power armor, including a partial Terminator suit. Ammunition, provisions, bionics, and fuel made up the list as well, with the acolyte explaining that the heavier items including ammunition for the ships weapons and a Dreadnought chassis were being loaded in orbit as they spoke.

Leonydas oversaw the rest of the transfer operation as the acolyte turned back to his slate, occasionally ordering the servitors with screeching machine speech. Ashur ambled back out of the Thunderhawk, helmed now, and strode towards his Captain.

"What's our next course, Captain?" Leonydas donned his own helm, a modified Mk III pattern, to speak to his sergeant privately.

"We make for the _Iris_; I have a contact there that wanted Astartes bodyguards for some kind of expedition." Ashur hated _Hell's Iris_, a star fort that belonged to the Tyrant of Badab, lord of the Red Corsairs. Little better than Eldar pirates, the Corsairs stole everything not bolted down, and Blackheart had a force to rival the Despoiler's. Made up of renegades from every stripe, they were just as twisted as Magnus' sorcerous brood or Lorgar's screaming fanatics. But it was a suitable place for the War Hounds to find clients.

Ashur nodded in understanding; he didn't like it, but he'd follow his captain wherever he ordered them. They owed Leonydas their lives and freedom, thanks to him they were shed of Angron and the Nails. They stood in amicable silence as the acolyte's servitors finished loading the Devourer dropship, and they silently trod onto the Thunderhawk. Leonydas spoke into his microbead to Scyles, the pilot.

"Scyles, cycle it up, we're leaving."

"Yes, Captain. Acknowledged." He slowly awakened the machine spirit in the ancient gunship, warming its engines slowly but surely. Scyles took very good care of his gunship, and it took good care of the Astartes. The Devourer across from them followed suit, with Scyles speaking across the vox link to its pilot. They slowly ascended through the tortured atmosphere of the nameless world, leisurely slipping into the silent void.

Their ship, _Unto the Cruel_, was a Slaughter-class cruiser they had liberated from its former pirate owners, slaughtering the human renegades mercilessly in a glorious boarding action. It was now crewed by the pirate's former slaves, who had risen to help the Astartes massacre their captors. Seeing the courage of the slaves firsthand, Leonydas raised them up to crew the ship, since most of them were former Imperial Navy shipmen.

The ship itself was a thing of murderous beauty, its spires adorned with cathedral-like crenellations. Built for speed, the ship itself was still bristling with weaponry, with lance turrets and Destructor Cannon batteries growing from its faded blue and white painted hide. It hung close to one of the monstrous Dark Mechanicum vessels, a wholly original design by the shipwrights of one of their hell forge worlds. Cargo fliers moved back and forth in the void between the two vessels, while titanic fuel lines had been hauled amidships to accommodate their deal.

The Thunderhawk slipped into the hangar and Scyles gently set it down into its docking cradle. A maintenance crew of his slaves slipped from their otherwise menial tasks and began going over the gunship as they did after every combat mission. The Devourer set down in a nearby cradle, as the _Cruel_'s chief Tech-Priest ordered its gang of slaves and servitors to begin the unloading process from its overlooking workstation. The gunship hatch had lowered and the Astartes had begun filing out, several going to their quarters or the training pits, and some lounging about to watch the unloading process themselves and maybe pick out some choice gear.

Leonydas walked towards his Tech-Priest's workstation, where the tall and lanky thing clad in blue robes marked with the War Hounds' sigil, and the crest of the Dark Mechanicum stood. He wasn't sure if the being had been male or female originally, so far had it moved past the state of baseline human. Opaque, red-lensed goggles stared at the War Hounds' captain as he approached, the rest of its face covered by a vox grille wrought into the shape of a slavering hound.

"Captain Leonydas, welcome back." It said as it looked down at the Astartes, its voice something between a dog's growl and shotgun blast. Leonydas looked up at the towering being, something akin to weariness is his eyes, if such a thing was possible for the post-human warriors.

"Hail, Honored Dysonius. How's the transfer going?" The Tech-Priest paused as it accessed its cogitator console and began to quickly process the raw data that scrolled by.

"Refueling is at eighty-seven percent, reloading of munitions is at ninety-three percent. Unloading of the dropships in Hangar Alpha and Hangar Beta are at sixty-eight percent. Estimated time to completion is thus: one standard hour." The words ground out of Dysonius' grille mouth, leaving Leonydas to nod in satisfaction.

"Very well, Tech-Priest. If you need me, I'll be on the bridge." With a growl of power armor servos, the captain of the War Hounds made his way to the lift, before punching in the bridge as his destination.


	2. Chapter 2

Leonydas sat in his command throne, overlooking the slaves and servitors that ran his ship's bridge. Most of the bridge slaves wore handmade uniforms that emulated the colors their masters wore, the Hounds' sigil an old brand scar on their left cheek.

The bridge of the ancient ship was brightly lit, allowing one to see all its tarnished honor in full display. Antique war banners from the ship's service to the Imperium still hung from the ceiling, tattered and threadbare. The aquilas that dotted the ship were not desecrated, at least on the interior, but neither were they cared for.

Leonydas watched his slaves as they went about the business of running his ship, unenvying of that task. Some of his brethren, and his weak blooded kin found void combat more exhilarating that having blade in hand and blood running down your fist.

They had just transitioned back to realspace after the short warp jump to _Hell's Iris._ Soon they would be approaching the malformed star fort; a haven for renegades, mutants, and witches.

He had ordered the blast shutters opened, so he could look upon the perverse realm that Blackheart ruled, and the War Hounds had haunted after fleeing the Great Eye. He watched on the pict view as they powered closer and closer to the warped space station. Soon they would be in vox range, and they'd be able to dock.

* * *

Ashur watched as Uldin and Nojus wrestled in the coarse sand of the training pit, each one wearing combat fatigues and stripped to the waist. Uldin's pale skin was dominated with crude tattoos and burn scars, while Nojus' ebony skin was unblemished but for the long scar that ran from left shoulder to right hip.

Nojus was a consummate duelist when he held a spear, and he was competent with his hands when he had to be. But Uldin was a monster, throwing punches and kicks that Nojus was unable to counter, landing blows that would have decimated a lesser opponent. The match was finally over when Uldin locked Nojus into a chokehold that the other warrior could not break out of.

Both warriors left the pit, Uldin having earned a new arming slave for winning the bout. Ashur continued to watch as several slaves stepped into the pit to train, each of them eager to give a good showing. He finally turned away when he sensed one of his brothers approaching.

It was Clovis, one of the Afflicted. Several of the brothers that survived the removal of the Nails were still forever changed by the accursed things. Memory loss, seizures, catatonia, and uncontrollable rage were the side effects of the miracle that saved them from themselves, but it was a small price to pay for their freedom.

"Brother, what is it you need?" Ashur almost always spoke with a grin in his voice now, able to feel something besides the overwhelming need for slaughter.

"Huh?" Clovis looked confused, his face contorted into an unrecognizable expression.

"What do you need, Clovis?" Talking with the Afflicted was sometimes depressing, like talking to one of the Ancients who thought they still fought in the Crusade.

"I'm not sure, brother. I'm not sure that I'm Clovis." He looked himself over, at the scars and scratches in his plate, at the totems that hung from his body. Ashur could tell he was deep into one of his episodes; episodes that were becoming more frequent.

"Clovis, let's go see Niall. He might be able to give you something." Clovis nodded meekly, which only served to perturb Ashur more. To see an Astartes, one that had slain as many foes as Clovis, act like an addle-brained child was alarming.

* * *

The sat at high anchor several kilometers from Blackheart's star fort, a stone's throw in terms of the void. Leonydas had donned his helm and was waiting for his men that would accompanying him aboard in the hangar bay.

It was here Dysonius approached him, carrying Leonydas' repaired weapon. It was a truly massive chain-greatsword, almost two meters in length. It was a weapon from a different age, one Leonydas had carried since he had been made a sergeant so many years ago. He had sundered the great blade against a champion of the IVth Legion several standard months ago, Dysonius had repaired it with materials from their pay.

"Here you are, Captain Leonydas. I have repaired your weapon." It handed the colossal sword to the Astartes, the blue blade housing gleaming like it was freshly painted. The gleaming adamantium teeth were coated in fresh oil, and the snarling hound's head on the pommel was newly polished. Leonydas grunted in grim satisfaction as he hefted the blade.

"My thanks, Tech-Priest, for your efforts. This was sorely missed in our last engagement." The lofty Tech-Priest inclined its head in acknowledgement, then slowly ambled away back towards its workshop. Leonydas smiled morosely behind his helm, the Tech-Priest was not known for its stunning conversation.

He was drawn from his thoughts as his 'honor guard' entered the hangar. Uldin and Nojus were both clad in Terminator plate, of different marks. Uldin was clad in revered Cataphractii plate, the armor recently completed and painted in the War Hounds' colors. He clutched a baroque autocannon in his massive right fist, his left fist housing a power field that would tear through almost anything. Nojus was arrayed in Tartaros pattern, a rarity even during the Crusade and the Heresy. They had stolen the suit from their Legion when they fled; now Nojus used the more mobile suit to great effect as a duelist. Armed with a storm shield and a power spear, Nojus was second to none in the War Hounds.

His other two guards, Patrus and Agar, were clad in standard plate; Uldin and Nojus were wearing the only Terminator plate the War Hounds had in their possession. Patrus and Agar followed behind the Terminator clad warriors, both armed with bolters and chainaxes. Scyles already sat in their Thunderhawk, waiting as his Captain and the others strode onto the gunship.

"Scyles, we have permission to land in North Quadrant hangar, bay 26 Gamma." Leonydas said over the the cycling of the gunship's engines.

"Acknowledged, Captain." Leonydas, Patrus, and Agar had all locked themselves into their restraint harnesses, while the Terminator clad champions just maglocked themselves to the floor. Nojus spoke over their internal vox.

"I hate coming here; this place is filthy, and these 'Astartes' are nothing more than pirates." Murmured assent trickled in from the others. Leonydas answered him.

"I know, but it's a sacrifice we have to make. They are ones that procure most of our equipment, even if they are honor-less animals." He was interrupted as they approached the malformed space station, and Scyles began the docking process. They all had their helmets in place, and all but Leonydas held their weapons loosely in their fists.

Shudders ran through the gunship as it settled to the hangar floor and was locked in place. Pressure was equalized, and Scyles opened the rear hatch.

"Scyles, stay with the Thunderhawk." Scyles acknowledged with a click over the vox; he didn't want his gunship to fall into hands of these pirates. Leonydas and his guards were met by a squad of Red Corsairs as they walked onto the star fort proper. Their armor was mismatched, and their bodies were all in twisted states of various mutations. But had at least closed ranks and managed to at least look like an echo of the soldiers they once were.

Leonydas didn't recognize the leader, an Astartes whose red and black war plate was shot through with streaks of purple and chased in gold. He was helmless, his head unnaturally pale. Grid-like scars marked his bald head, and it looked like large needles made of bone had been driven into his skull. Several of the others had the marks of self-mutilation on themselves as well; a flayed-open throat, a mouth pulled open by wires. Abomination, but one Leonydas was forced to work with.

He removed his own helm and locked it to his thigh plate. His scarred head and steely eyes made him look like one of the warrior-kings of Ancient Terra, a leader of men that would just as soon be fighting alongside his men as ruling them.

"Ah, Captain Leonydas. I am Bagoas, of the Sanguine Saints. Welcome back to the _Iris_. I assume you're here on business, and not pleasure?" The pale Astartes' voice was deep, yet soft at the same time. A strange lilt held the end of it, like the promise of untold pleasure.

"Of course, Bagoas. I'm here to meet with someone. If you'll excuse us." He made to walk past the effete warriors, but they moved to stop him. Bagoas tittered girlishly.

"I'm afraid you don't understand, Captain. Your business is our business." He giggled again. "We're your new partners." Uldin's autocannon cycled menacingly, and Bagoas' face twisted in anger.

"What are you talking about?" The edge to Leonydas' voice was a sharp as a blade.

"We've met with your contact and are very interested in what he had to say. So, we are your partners now." Leonydas spat on the floor, the liquid hissing as it ate at the deck plates.

"Where is she?" The other Astartes snickered, his needle-ridden face warped in amusement.

"We're hosting her in our private club, Captain. Follow, we'll take you to her." The squad of red-clad Astartes formed a wedge in front of the War Hounds as they made their way deeper into the space station.


End file.
